


Personal Life

by BetsyByron



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Brothers, Crossover, Drugs, Jealousy, M/M, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetsyByron/pseuds/BetsyByron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One detective commits suicide.<br/>One Quartermaster doesn't believe it.<br/>One British Government deals with the crisis.<br/>One doctor doesn't.<br/>One agent has doubts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They have been dating a month when Q shows up for work paler than usual, and James knows him enough to discern that something is wrong. When he finally corners him in the break room and asks what it is, Q unclenches his hand from the newspaper he has been holding all morning, and smoothes it flat on the table.

**SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS**

“What’s this about?” James asks, glancing at the headline.

He has followed from afar the fuss around this Sherlock Holmes guy, but he wasn’t really interested in the various quibbles over the detective’s credentials. It is just another of those crazy and useless stories the papers were full of.

“He’s dead.” Q says in a blank voice.

“I can see that… Did you know him?”

James is concerned by the look on his Quartermaster’s face, but he cannot bring himself to treat the matter as serious as long as it is just a stranger in the paper. How can Q know this guy? Geniuses Anonymous?

“He’s…” Q shakes his head. “Yes.” He leaves it at that. “I hadn’t seen him in a while but I do know him.”

“I’m sorry.” James offers.

He isn’t very good at this. He can feel Q probably needs a hug or something like that, but it isn’t really his style and it would add awkwardness to the situation more than anything else. When he says they have been _dating,_ it mostly means they have been to each other’s place a few times, sharing bed, shower and breakfast with as much sex as they can squeeze in between. They don’t do valentine cards or pour their hearts out to one another. Anyhow, Q seems too upset to care right now. He barely looks at James as he goes past him and out of the room.

“I have to make a call.”

*

Past the first shock, Algernon Holmes – otherwise known as Q for his new job at MI6 – decides it cannot be true. Whatever the headline reads – and it feels like a slap in his face every time he lays eyes on it – he knows in his heart Sherlock cannot be dead. He is too clever to die this way, beaten, slandered, alone, reduced to taking his own life. James made him realize it couldn’t be true, by making him say it out loud. When he voiced it, when he said “He’s dead”, it felt like a lie. Of course he isn’t dead.

He calls Mycroft after finding another corner in which he can be alone. His eldest brother picks up almost instantly – after all, there are only four persons in the world who have that number. Possibly three now.

“Algy.”

“Mycroft. He’s not dead, right?”

“You’ve seen the papers.”

“I’m asking you.”

There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the line. Complete silence. No heavy breathing, no fidgeting, no desperate muffling of the receiver to hide an emotional reaction. Mycroft always was very good at dealing with crisis. A little too good sometimes.

“I’m just like you.” He tells his little brother eventually. “I suspect he isn’t. I haven’t had confirmation yet.” After a pause, he adds more softly: “I will call you when I do. I promise.”

Q thanks him, but he knows he isn’t going to sit still and wait for news. On the spot, he texts Sherlock – _Moron. Answer me. Q_ – and as soon as he is back in Q-branch, he proceeds on running the GPS localization program on the middle Holmes’s phone. He doesn’t know what he expected. The signal is still at St Bart’s. Q imagines the phone sitting in a little plastic bag with whatever else was in Sherlock’s pockets then, and he has to shake his head to ward off the thought. No, Sherlock is alive. He is alive and juggling with the phone right now, a smug smirk on his face as he looks at the texts he received, and he’s congratulating himself on how clever he is to have fooled everybody. This sounds a lot more like him than death.

*

They have been dating three months when Q finally receives a text from Sherlock. He has assigned him his own ring, and he jumps out of James’s arms instantly, leaving the agent to his surprise as he runs to the dresser to pick up the phone. Of course Mycroft has relayed the news months ago that Sherlock had, somehow, staged and faked his suicide, but Q hasn’t had the privilege of receiving any direct sign of life.

Until now. _I need your help. SH_

“Anything wrong?” James calls from behind him, sounding slightly annoyed. Q’s work-related shenanigans have interrupted their sexual activities once or twice before, but have never made him look so eager to stop making out.

“I have to go.” Q announces, and starts slipping his clothes back on.

“Fine.” James says curtly after a silence. “You can be so weird sometimes.” He adds. “I don’t know why I put up with your shit.”

“Because _your_ shit is far, far worse, 007.” The Quartermaster answers, taking a second to crawl on top of James (still slumped on the bed) and press a kiss to his lips. “And the sex is good enough that we can both overlook that.” Another kiss. “See you at work.”

He dashes, more than a little reluctant to leave his flat in the middle of the night while a man like James Bond is half naked in his bed. But family first. Always.

He gets the address from Mycroft on the cab ride. The place is shabby, but it looks like Sherlock. A nondescript building, at first glance, with a million details the average passerby would overlook – so, naturally, the kind of details Sherlock likes best; it flatters his ego. As he knocks on the door, Algy thinks that even the most insufferable of Sherlock’s traits of character, he has actually missed. Two months without seeing his brother isn’t uncommon _per se_ , but it is a little different when his last public action was to commit suicide, and although Q knows he is alive he has no idea if he is alright.

He isn’t.

The inside of the flat looks like – well, probably exactly what it is: furbished by Mycroft and wrecked by Sherlock. He obviously doesn’t care about it being anything but a shithole. It looks like a junkie’s flat. Q’s eyes come to rest on his brother, slouched in an armchair, head tilted back, sleeves rolled up, needle marks in the crook of his elbow. It _is_ a junkie’s flat.

“Al.” Sherlock greets him. “I have a little favour to ask you.”

“Nice to see you too.” Q answers slightly bitterly. “I won’t say ‘glad you’re alive’, because you look half dead to me.”

He sees no reason to go easy on Sherlock. He's not the one who has been playing dead for two months here. He's not the one who’s doing drugs again. He's not the one breaking everyone’s heart.

“Don’t start.” Sherlock snaps. Drugs have never numbed down his mind. “I have enough of it from Mycroft.”

“Mycroft knows about this?”

Sherlock snorts.

“How often do you think he checks on me? Of course he knows. It’s not like he can do anything about it.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be trying to get your life and reputation back?” Algy asks, drawing from what Mycroft has told him. “Dismantle Moriarty’s web, make sure the men who threatened John’s life are no longer there to hurt him?”

Sherlock seems to cringe at John’s name.

“Easier said than done.” Sherlock says – and his brother knows, at that moment, that something really is wrong with him. Sherlock has never met a task easier said than done. If anything, it’s usually more tiresome for him to explain a theory than to just act on it.

“But I haven’t given up.” He adds. “I just need you to do something for me.”

Q considers telling him to fuck off, but he knows he doesn’t have it in him.

“Anything.” He answers with more honesty than he’d wish.

Sherlock remains silent for a while. When he speaks, it’s in a low voice, and it sounds like a confession.

“I just want to know that he’s okay.”

*

Even supermarkets have become an ordeal. He freezes, wonders why he is even buying any of this stuff, with nobody waiting for him at home not lifting a finger to help. With no bloody body parts in the fridge in between which he will have to try to stack the food. With no other fate for the butter than to be used for cooking. With a box of teabags that will last twice as long.

He has to go further and further for groceries. He cannot go back where Sherlock’s presence is still palpable – even if he has never actually set foot in the shops. He cannot go back where he had a breakdown and collapsed into body-wrecking sobs in the middle of the Spreads and Jams aisle. He cannot go back where he renounced, let the basket slam on the tiles and decided not to eat for another day.

Still, he does have to get supplies. It’s in a supermarket he meets him.

A lean frame, a mess of dark curls. He knows it cannot be him, and he knows it’s going to hurt like hell when he turns and his face isn’t Sherlock’s, but he can’t help himself, his arm moves on its own accord and his hand grabs the man’s elbow.

John feels like a kick in the stomach. He is younger, thinner, he has glasses framing surprised eyes, and of course, of course he isn’t Sherlock, but there is something so painfully similar about the features. He feels like punching him in the face. Add another shop to the list of shops he could no longer go to.

John manages to take a step back, fists clenched, and mumbles something like “Sorry.”

“Are you alright?” The young man asks – at least his voice is nothing like’s Sherlock’s.

 _Yeah, sure, I’m fine, no worries_. That’s what he should say. He has no idea what pushes him to answer a simple “No.”

Instantly though, he shakes his head with a joyless laugh – doesn’t even care what the other guy might think of him.

“Sorry.” He says. “Have a good day.”

He turns around, but the young man speaks from behind him.

“John.”

John turns back, lost, not sure what reality is anymore, because he knows he has never seen this guy before and he looks too much like Sherlock. He is biting his lips, as if he has just said something he shouldn’t have.

“Sorry.” He says, mirroring John. “I… I’m… My name is Algernon.”

Somehow, he doesn’t need to add a family name to that. John only ever knew one family with names as stupid as this one.

“I’m Sherlock’s younger brother.”

*

John’s hands are shaking as he puts down a mug of tea on the table next to the young man. Q can’t blame him. He knows Sherlock never mentioned him – he wouldn’t have mentioned Mycroft either had the latter not made sure John knew of his existence. He knows they look alike, too, Sherlock and him, and it must be painful. But he can’t tell John. He can’t even tell him Sherlock is alive – if not well – and actually send him. He promised. He shouldn’t even have told John who he was. He doesn’t know what to do now.

“So.” John clears his throat.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.” Q says. “I was in the neighbourhood and I recognized you when you...recognized me. Sort of.”

He’s feeling awkward and unkind. Obviously John is a wreck. But there’s no need to make things worse. And his mere presence is, in fact, making things worse.

“I should go.” He says.

“No, please.” John gestures for him to stay seated. “Algernon, was it?”

“Algy.” Q prefers. Even in its shorter form he’s gotten unused to hearing his own name.

“Algy.” John repeats. There’s a pause. “Sherlock never told me about you.”

“I know.” Q says. “He doesn’t really do family.”

He realises he’s used the present tense. It pains him not to be able to tell this poor man the truth. So he suddenly decides to be honest about something else.

“It might also be because of my job.” He’s breaching protocol, but he feels like he owes John at least that. “I’m working at MI6, they have this thing about identities.”

“MI6, really.” John says, not impressed but vaguely interested. “Doesn’t surprise me from a Holmes, mind you.”

Q sees his throat tighten, but the man forces himself to keep going.

“What do you do?”

“That, I’m afraid, is confidential.” Q answers.

“Of course.”

He doesn’t speak for another long moment. Q knows he doesn’t really want to speak. He doesn’t want to hear about ‘Sherlock, the brother’. The only Sherlock he knows – and wants – is his friend and insufferable flatmate. And Algy is the closest he’s going to get. He just wants a feel of Sherlock’s presence. A Holmes sitting on the sofa. He’s hurting himself.

Q feels a pang of hatred for Sherlock. He had no right. John is a good man, probably the best man Sherlock has ever met, and he is destroying him. Slowly, and steadily. Every day Sherlock stays dead, John Watson is a little less alive.

“I don’t want to keep you.” John says after a while. “The country must need you.” He adds with a forced smile.

“The country is fine.” Q smiles softly in return.

I hope you will be too, he thinks.

“Would you...” John holds him back right before he crosses the threshold. He looks like he’s about to renounce, but in the end he asks: “Would you come back? To talk, maybe...grab a bite.”

“Sure.” Q accepts.

He knows John doesn’t have that many people to mourn Sherlock with. He can at least give him that.

*

He gets a call from James as he walks down the street. He needed some air.

“007.” He picks up. “I was told you didn’t have a mission before next week.”

There is no professional reason he should need him.

“You took a day off.” James notes.

“Well observed.”

“It’s not like you. You’re always glued to your desk.”

Unless I unglue you, James is thinking. But he has nothing to do with Q’s extracurricular activities this time, and he doesn’t like it. The young Quartermaster smiles. It would almost be sweet, if James Bond wasn’t this possessive about basically everything. Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to see him get a little jealous.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, there’s nothing to worry about.” He reassures his colleague and lover.

“If it was a way to shorten the trial period of your new intern by checking how he would deal without you, he failed miserably.” James informs him humorously.

“Surely you should have other things to do than to loom around Q-branch.” Q replies with a smile, comforted that there is someone to miss him somewhere in this cold world.

And he can almost hear James’s smile on the other side.

“See you tonight?”

Q hoped he wouldn’t ask.

“No.” He denies him reluctantly. “I still have something I have to see to.”

“Okay.” James simply says.

Q knows he will have some explaining to do at one point or another. But as long as James lets it slide, so will he, probably.

*

He is standing in front of Sherlock, resolute. His brother is looking at him in slight bewilderment.

“Al.” He insists. “Tell me.”

Q shakes his head again, feeling like his old ten-year old self. Just as stubborn.

“I am not telling you anything about John.” He repeats. “Not until you get your shit together and are able to make me the honest promise that you are doing everything you can to get clean, safe, and back in your flat.”

He means it. If Sherlock needs any incentive, John is the only one Q can use. He has just met him, and he cannot bear to leave him in this state without trying. Sherlock is his friend, as much as a sociopath as he is. He shouldn’t be able to let him suffer this way.

“I could always ask Mycroft.” The middle Homes says defiantly.

“But you asked me.” The youngest retorts. “Mycroft, I’m sure, is already giving you his idea of ‘news’. John still lives in 221B. At ten past nine on Tuesday he went out and got coffee. Every afternoon he goes to work. Fat lot of good it does you.”

Sherlock says nothing, lips pursed in a mulish attitude.

“This is my deal anyway.” Q settles. “I will help you, in any way I can. I’ve already taken dispositions to clear the area of anyone you could buy from. Safer streets, if you ask me.”

“You.” Sherlock laughs incredulously. “Singlehandedly bringing down the heroin market. Good for you.”

Q rolls his eyes. He never grew completely out of childhood in Sherlock’s mind. Certainly not enough to prevent him from getting what he wants. But he can, and he will make sure Sherlock knows that for a fact before long.

“Sherlock.” He points out. “Mycroft owns the CCTV network and I’m the best Quartermaster the MI6 has ever seen, with all the resources that come with it. You think it was hard to locate your dealers?”

“You asked Mycroft for help then.” It sounds like an insult – which is probably what it’s meant to be.

“Of course not.” Q says in his factual tone. “It’s a lot less trouble to just hack him.”

Finally, some kind of complicity establishes between them. Sherlock lifts his eyes back up to him, and he knows Q is here to help. And Q knows Sherlock is going to let him. He comes up to the armchair his brother is still sitting in, and holds up his hand.

“For John.” He says.

Sherlock nods slightly, takes Algy’s hand and gives it a brief squeeze. Deal.

“For John.”

*

John feels he is getting better. It is the fourth time now Algy has come to visit him, sometimes they sit in 221B, sometimes they go for a walk, and his presence is improving his general health. There are things they don’t talk about, like flatmates, or what Algy does exactly for a living. But they do talk, and it gets him back in the world. He eats better, sleeps better, because he knows those grey eyes will be seeing the difference. He’s glad, in spite of the similar features, that Algy’s eyes are not his brother’s intense blue. They are softer, change colour with the weather. There are secrets in them, secrets he’s sure don’t all have to do with the MI6, but John doesn’t want to ask.

Q feels he is getting more and more exhausted. His job isn’t less demanding because he has personal business to attend to, and he doesn’t do it will less perfection. He goes to Sherlock at least three times a week, and every time is a struggle. He gives up on the drugs, takes on cigarettes, to the point the flat disappears behind the smoke. Gives up cigarettes, takes on alcohol. Gives up alcohol, takes on something else. It’s endless, and Q tries it all, from sweet-talking to threatening, even throwing in a punch once. And he gives the rest of his energy to John, because he knows he needs it. He can see the improvement, and it’s worth it. But he hasn’t spent a night with James in weeks.

James feels he is losing Q. He has always been unreachable when he’s at work, but James used to have the unique privilege of being able to get him off his planet. They only had two quick shags these past few weeks, and Q is distant, preoccupied. James tries not to read anything into it. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe Q’s just tired. But Q practically lives underground, in Q-branch, he couldn’t care less about the weather. And if the MI6 had integrated the word 'tired' into its glossary, they wouldn’t be doing a very good job, would they. So he does something he cannot be proud of, he does something that would be frowned upon by about everybody he knows.

He tails him. One of those nights Q tells him, once again, with a blank face, that no, he isn’t working late tonight but he cannot go home with him because “something came up”.

He follows him to a rather shabby part of town, and sees him enter a no-less shabby apartment building. He doesn’t try to follow him as far as into the flat; whatever he is doing here, it’s too soon to call it suspicious and burst in on him.

He follows him the next time he takes an afternoon off – or does so pretending he’s going to work from home or some other preposterous excuse. Q was virtually never out of his lab before a few months ago.

James has been convincing himself he’s just worried about Q’s new strange behaviour. But he is doubting him, and he is jealous. He knows he’s jealous when he sees him sitting across a bloke he seems to know well enough in a café. He’s almost tempted to barge in all guns blazing to claim what’s his, and at least give his unseemly rival a good fright.

He realises he’s reacting like a crazy chick. Q is entitled to a private life – he is even entitled to be seeing someone else. He’s not his possession. They never said they were exclusive.

Still.

James corners his – _his_ – Quartermaster a few days later. He knows he’s been back to the shabby flat, he doesn’t know about the blond guy. It pisses him off that he’s blond, of obvious military background, and altogether too much of the same type as James himself.

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

He gives him a chance to choose what he’s going to say, without reducing the question to this bloody blond guy. Q’s eyebrows shoot up; he looks more annoyed than surprised.

“What makes you think anything is wrong?”

“Want me to make a list?”

Q sighs.

“Bond, as much as our common employer tries to delete that fact, I have a personal life, outside these headquarters.”

“I know.” James says.

“Good.”

“I thought I was part of it.”

Q looks puzzled for a moment.

“James, I...”

James appreciates the reappearance of his first name.

“You thought I just wanted sex.” He fills in. “Maybe it was true, at first. But you are the addictive kind. I don’t just like the occasional quick shag in the supply room. I like waking up in your warmth. I like this little tweak of a smile you think nobody can see when I come into Q-branch.” He comes closer, almost threatening. “I _don’t_ like when I can clearly see something is wrong and you’re not telling me. I don’t like you shutting me out.”

I don’t like you seeing blond ex-army guys that are not me behind my back.

He doesn’t know how he expected Q to react to this declaration. Maybe not laugh though, like he does.

“007.” He smiles cheekily. “Is it possible you have fallen for me?”

James has an inkling he should be embarrassed about what just came out of his mouth – of his heart. But he’s never felt so sure about something outside of a mission.

“Got anything to say against that?”

“Yes.” Q whispers, coming close enough to grab his lover by the lapels of his jacket and pull him into a kiss. “It was about time.”

*

Reluctant at first, Q starts talking cradled against James in the bathtub.

“Even you are not supposed to know my real-life identity.” He resists at first.

“You should know I’m not one to abide by MI6 rules very much.” James opposes. “And you don’t have to tell me your name or your National Insurance number. Just what’s troubling you.”

“What’s troubling me _is_ my name, if not my insurance number.” Q sighs. “I mean, it’s a family matter. And I can’t keep names out of it if I’m to tell you the whole story.”

“Okay.” James says. “But you know you can trust me. Don't you?”

“Considering you’re the most out of character I have ever heard you to be, I’m not so sure.”

“Out of character? You and anyone you asked have never seen me in love, that’s all.”

Q shifts so briskly in the tub he splashes water all over the tile floor.

“What?”

“What?” James repeats innocently.

“You said you were...”

“In love with you.” James confirms matter-of-factly. “I deny all responsibility and blame it entirely on you. Now are you going to tell me your dirty little secrets?”

Q leans back against James, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Bloody hell, you just don’t bomb people with announcements like that and expect them to let it slide.”

“What with your IQ and observation capacities,” James teases, “I actually thought you would have guessed without me needing to spell it out for you. You know my track records, you’d think I’d be involved with you over four months if I didn’t have the slightest feelings for you?”

“But I’m a...guy.”

“And a wonderful one.”

“But you’re such a ladies’ man.”

James sighs.

“Can you postpone not believing me? I want to know what’s wrong in your private life so I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix this for me.” Q warns. He sighs, in turn, before he pursues. “Remember that story in the papers, about the detective who...jumped off the roof of St Bart’s.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” James recalls. “You were upset about it. You knew him somehow.”

“He’s my brother.” Q reveals.

There is a second of stunned silence.

“Oh, Q, I’m sorry.”

“No, he’s not dead.” Q reassures him. “He faked it. But now he’s in hiding, and on drugs or whatever else, tracking the entire criminal web working under the man who pushed him into pretending to commit suicide in the first place, and I can’t seem to be getting him back on tracks. And those criminals are not all “digitalized”, if I may say, which makes it impossible for me to help the way I know best, which is bloody annoying.”

James is partly reassured, partly surprised, partly amused. For a family matter, it seems to reach national proportions. And who’s the blond one? He wants to ask. Because he doesn’t look like he’s on drugs, and really not like you’re related. He hugs Q from behind instead, trying to get him to relax again. He does a little, and goes on talking, answering the question James didn’t ask.

“Sherlock left his best friend to believe he was dead. He’s shattered. I had to help _him_ get on his feet too. I did what I could to make him see life was still there, but I couldn’t even tell him Sherlock was alive. I hate this mess. I hate my brother. Make that a plural, actually. Mycroft does nothing to help.”

“Mycroft?” James picks up. “Mycroft and Sherlock? I never wondered what your name could be, but now I’m curious.”

“Shut up, you and your plain name.”

James kisses his neck teasingly, and they both feel closer even though they haven’t moved. James likes the mystery around Q, it makes him very attractive, very intriguing, in a how-did-those-brains-got-sorted-with-this-body way. But he also likes that he lets him in.

“Tell me.” He smiles against Q’s neck.

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.” James promises.

“If you don’t, I’ll believe you love me.” Q challenges him.

“I won’t.” James repeats.

Q smiles like he’s not buying it at all.

“It’s Algernon. You can make that Algy.”

“Nice to meet you, Algy.” James says.

He smiles, but doesn’t laugh, and Q turns to kiss him in reward.

007 thinks that he hasn’t had a personal life of his own in a long while. He does now. He does now, and Algernon Holmes is in it.

That name is his new favourite name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this happened. This is entirely you readers' fault for making me write more!

Had Q known that, all along, all he needed to do was bring a double-oh agent in the picture, he would have told James long ago.

It has merely been a few weeks, and with combined directions for the three Holmes brothers, James has done all the legwork that was needed to wipe off the known remnants of Moriarty's network.

Q goes back to see Sherlock when, last but not least, he has the confirmation that James snapped Sebastian Moran's neck. The sniper was by far the hardest to get, but even he had little chances to escape the determination of one James Bond for too long.

“Quite proficient, your agent friend.”

Generously, Q was letting the eldest Holmes in on his conversation with Sherlock as they went through a final check of all the targets Bond needed to – and had – put out.

“You were the only one who doubted that, Mycroft. Then again, we all know how dearly your regard anything MI6.”

“Not all of it, since they at least had the good sense to hire you.” Mycroft tries flattery.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Q cuts the communication with Mycroft, suddenly aware of what his middle brother is doing. He's wrapping his scarf around his neck and he's already in his coat.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Home.” Sherlock answers like it's completely obvious.

“Wait.” Q tries to slow him down, but Sherlock is already half out the door.

He ignores the chime of his phone – that’s probably Mycroft calling back.

“Sherlock.” He insists, running after his brother. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to-”

Sherlock stops and turns in a snap, and Algy almost collides with him.

“It’s been months, Al. _Months._ And now finally John is safe. I’m not wasting another second.”

“At least let’s warn-”

“Answer your goddamn phone.” Sherlock cuts him short, signifying that any further negotiation about him running to Baker Street is clearly out of the question.

Q presses the button absent-mindedly, ready to tell Mycroft to either talk some sense into Sherlock or piss off, but it’s James’s urgent voice which fills the receiver, and he sounds downright furious – with a hint of panic.

“Q, at fucking last, it was a stunt, he’s still out there. D’you hear me? The man I killed was _not_ Sebastian Moran, he set us up.”

Sherlock is half into the taxi when Q calls his name – well, half his name. The rest is cut off by a sharp sting in his chest. For a second it knocks the breath out of him, and his body spins backward. Then the pain hits, blinding pain radiating through his whole body. He vaguely hears Sherlock scream. He blacks out before he hits the ground.

*

Every once in a while, John takes a shift in Accident & Emergency. He doesn’t like that too much, but he knows they need all the help they can get. He can only hope for no or very little head wounds. Especially on men with dark hair. Deep breaths. He has to get Sherlock the hell out of his mind.

Of course that’s when Sherlock barges through the doors of A&E.

First there’s shock.

Then the normal _Of course not, I’m just imagining things, can’t keep seeing him everywhere_.

Then he just stands there completely astonished and unable to think, because he blinks, he shakes his head, but it’s him. It’s Sherlock. It’s his coat, it’s his scarf, it’s his ridiculous bone structure and his wild black curls.

It’s not his facial expression. This Sherlock looks out of his mind with terror, and he’s fretting like a madman around a stretcher, in spite of the repeated attempts from the various staff to keep him at a rational distance.

On the stretcher there is a young man, unconscious and covered in blood. The trauma team have already equipped him with an oxygen mask and cut his clothes to have access to what looks like a gunshot wound, doing damage control and quickly assessing the situation. Any minute now they’ll take him to surgery, if it’s not too late already. John looks through him, he looks familiar but it doesn’t register.

The full realization hits him when Mycroft appears. Holy fuck, if Mycroft is here, with his hand on Sherlock’s arm, then it is really Sherlock, it is really him, he’s alive, he’s bloody alive and-

And the wounded man on the stretcher is the youngest Holmes.

Sherlock is alive and Algernon is dying.

*

“Doctor Watson!”

Sherlock turns when the name is called, as if reacting to his own. Their eyes meet across the room. Sherlock freezes, John starts moving. They need a surgeon to take Algy into an operating room.

Sherlock stands still for a few seconds, almost shell-shocked. He wasn’t expecting John to be here. He wasn’t expecting to see him again in such circumstances. But there he is. There he is. Sherlock should be overwhelmed, but he already is, and it seems that the emotions cancel each other in their violence. He feels perfectly serene. Blank.

The sight of John dragging his baby brother out of the room, professional and focused but obviously distressed about the turn of events, makes him snap back into awareness. He rushes to John, and before he can think he grabs his face and presses his lips to his. Because John needs to know he’s real. Because he’s alive and suddenly it doesn’t even comes on top of the present moment.

“I’m sorry.” He says to a dumbfounded John. “And I’ll explain. Don’t let him die.”

That last bit seems to prevent John from staying stunned, because he nods shortly and rushes out with his patient.

*

The wait is a torture. It stretches for hours on end, and Sherlock doesn’t even have the heart to quibble with Mycroft, which is usually a satisfactory past time.

Mycroft sits extraordinary still and stiff, and he doesn’t speak either. He looks straight ahead, and Sherlock wonders how long it will take his eldest to start blaming him.

They wait. Sherlock cannot even think. Because if he thinks, he will imagine. And he cannot imagine what would happen if Algy died. And he cannot think about the fact that this pain, the pain he is feeling now, he imposed on John for months. He is a monster.

So he doesn’t think. He waits.

When John reappears, he springs up. It’s not John he’s seeing. It’s the surgeon who may or may not have saved his brother’s life.

“He’s out of danger.” He says.

Sherlock collapses back in his chair. Thank God. He raises his eyes, looks at John.

“Thank you.”

He’s not sure he can lift the weight of the world from his shoulders right now. Algy is out of the woods. He’s not.

But John looks exhausted, and really not about to tackle that issue at the moment. He explains that the bullet missed the heart by hardly more than an inch, that they were able to take it out, that there shouldn’t be lasting damage. He discloses that Algernon also had a concussion from when his head hit the pavement, and that his heart ceased to beat for a moment, but everything could be and was fixed.

“You can go and see him.” He adds. “But he might not wake before a few more hours. I suggest you get some rest.”

He turns around, and Sherlock cannot let him go, but John flinches back when he comes near him, and shakes his head rigidly.

“Sorry, I can’t.” He breathes. “Not now, Sherlock.”

He chokes slightly on the name.

“Sherlock.” He repeats more steadily, breathing in deeply. “I can’t do this right now. You died. You were dead for months, and now suddenly you’re alive, and your brother’s heart fucking stopped in my hands. A brother I didn’t know you had two months ago. How do you expect me to-”

His voice breaks, and he has to collect himself again.

“This is too much. I need some air.”

He virtually runs out, and Sherlock heads off the other direction, towards Algernon’s room, because he’s not going to stand there analyzing the lump in his throat. He sits by his bed, and settles to wait some more.

*

Mycroft thinks of contacting James after a while. Well, at least he does contact him after a while; knowing him, Sherlock has no doubt everything of this sort and more occurred to him as soon as he texted him to get his ass to the hospital.

The agent is there in less time the London traffic should allow, and he takes the chair on the other side of the bed. He brushes Q’s forehead with the tip of his fingers, pushing back a lock of hair. Q who looks so young and helpless against the white pillow.

Sherlock never gave two thoughts about this man even when he came to do the heavy-lifting for him; he put him in the same bag as the rest of Al’s resources from MI6. But he knows that look. This man is in love with his brother. Isn’t that against regulations?

James watches Sherlock for a moment. It’s hard to consider him as Q’s family, although he definitely comes from the same genetic pool. It’s not how he had imagined meeting his lover’s brothers. Not that he had envisioned meeting them at all just yet. Anyway, Sherlock looks well, for a recently redeemed addict.

“What happened?” James asks eventually.

He’s amazed at how calm he is. His first instinct was to grab anyone around and to shake them until they told him how the hell Q got shot. Although he has a pretty clear idea already.

“Moran.” Sherlock replies.

Just as James dreaded. If he had been smarter. If he had been more efficient.

“It’s not your fault.” Sherlock reads him.

A faint smile stretches his lips, as he looks fondly at his sleeping brother.

“I’m sure Al would smack your head for thinking that.”

James stays silent for a moment, then states the obvious:

“He’s still out there, but I’ll get him. I’ll protect my man. I hope you can protect yours.”

*

When Q resurfaces Sherlock and James have barely moved. Mycroft was coming and going for a couple hours, but he had to leave, his work being what it is. James, aware of his own responsibilities, sent a short text to Moneypenny stating their absence, without going into details. Surely right now there are all grumbling against him for doing whatever the hell he wants all the time. It will be worse when they hear the good reason for that this time is that the Quartermaster got a bullet through his chest.

Q opens his eyes slowly, and James grabs his hand with such relief it makes him realize how scared he was. He cannot lose anyone else. He wouldn’t survive it this time.

“Q.” He says softly.

Q’s eyelids flutter, and he shifts uncomfortably in his bed. Sherlock rests a hand on his shoulder, very lightly, like he’s afraid he might break him.

“Take it easy.” He advises.

The younger Holmes clears his throat. He struggles to come to, and they can progressively see him feel less out of it. But he’s obviously utterly confused. He withdraws his hand from James’s grip, and Sherlock removes his own hand himself, giving him some air.

“What the hell.” Are his first words. “Did you make something blow up in my face with one of your experiments?” He asks his brother.

His speech is slightly slurred from the remnants of the anaesthesia – and the whole being shot and almost dying deal – but his mind is obviously back in working order already.

“You got shot.” Sherlock supplies.

“I got shot?” Algy repeats.

He looks towards James quickly, with uncertainty, as if he is wondering if he was the one holding the gun. James doesn’t really read anything into that. He wants to lean in and kiss Q. He doesn’t dare with Sherlock there.

“I won’t let it happen again, Q.” He promises. “I’ll get the bastard.”

Q keeps silent for a moment, still looking confused, and then clears his throat again.

“Who’s Q?”

*

Algy finds himself alone after about an hour of uninhibited mayhem during which a lot of questions are asked, a lot of doctors are called, and even more disorder ensues. The neurologist examining him eventually orders everyone out because the patient needs some rest.

From what he gathers, along with a bullet in the chest, he got a concussion which caused “small, probably temporary” amnesia. Whatever the doctor said to reassure them. Whether that’s true or not, for now it’s a fact: three years of his life are missing.

Three, fucking, years.

First things first, he doesn’t remember how on Earth he got into a situation where he was shot in the first place. But as far as he does remember, Mycroft is government and Sherlock helps Scotland Yard solve crimes, so it figures. That’s the easy part. But when he turns his head, he sees a pair of hipster glasses, and he doesn’t know when he started wearing those – contacts used to be his best friends. He doesn’t know what he does for a living. He doesn’t know _where_ he is living.

He doesn’t know the man who was holding his hand when he woke up.

James Bond, they tell him. It rings no bell whatsoever. He feels a little bad about that, because it looks like they’re friends, from the way the man was acting around him. Even...

No, he’s not going there, because even three years ago he was too old for teenage fantasies. In what world would such a gorgeous guy, who looks rather straight with that, but appearances are often misleading and- _**No.**_ There is no way he could ever score a guy like that. He’s the little geek nobody looks at twice. Except for when people want to shoot him, apparently.

“Brilliant.” He mutters under his breath.

He closes his eyes in exhaustion. His whole body is sore, and his mind his worse. He wants to sleep until the world is back to normal.

“Algernon?”

He opens his eyes again to check who the modest voice belongs to. It’s another doctor, not one he’s seen yet – which he didn’t think was possible since the whole hospital seemed to trickle in and out of his room earlier – but he’s wearing a lab coat. He doesn’t look like he’s here to do an umpteenth check up. His eyes are red, and he has _distress_ written all over him.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, coming closer.

He looks at the chair briefly, but decides against sitting down.

“Fine I guess, considering.” Algy answers, trying to sit up in his bed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if they warned you...”

The man shows no sign of knowing what he’s talking about, and Algy sighs.

“The whole ordeal vaporised the last three years off my memory.” He reveals. “So, I don’t actually know who you are.”

“Oh.” The doctor looks saddened.

“It might come back.”

He says that more for the man than for himself. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. It might, and it might not. Really he’s glad his IQ seems intact.

“I wanted to talk to you about Sherlock.” The man explains. “But then I guess you, you don’t know about the past few months. See I’m Sherlock’s friend, and... No, it would be too long to explain. It’s okay.”

He forces a smile, and Algy catches himself wondering what the hell Sherlock has done this time.

“It’s okay.” The other repeats. “I’ll let you rest.”

He leaves, not giving Algy any time to ask. Not if and how Sherlock made a mess of things; he’s Sherlock, he just does. But how did he actually make a friend?

*

He sleeps, on and off, for a few hours before he has another visitor.

It’s James Bond. Damn he looks good. Algy really wants to find out if there’s anything between – _no,_ there isn’t. Get real, Al.

Unlike Sherlock’s friend, he sits. Unlike Sherlock’s friend, he looks very neat and unaffected.

“How are you feeling, Q?” He asks. “Sorry. Algy.”

Because it’s the hundredth time he has been asked this question, he just goes on and assume the man can figure it out another way. He asks his own question instead.

“Why are you calling me Q?” He seriously wonders. “That’s not my initial. There isn’t even a ‘q’ in sight in my name. As far as I know.”

Maybe he changed his name. Maybe it’s his hacker’s alias or part of it. This is the most likely scenario he can think of, with the slight glitch that James Bond seriously looks nothing like a hacker.

“It stands for Quartermaster.” Bond answers, providing a whole different scenario.

Not one that’s more plausible.

“As in...” He cannot quite believe the assumptions that fall into place. _“Quartermaster?”_

He knows of the job and title, of course, what with a brother in the government and the hacking skills to go through his files, even the most protected ones about the secret services. He actually sneaked into the computer system of MI6 itself a few times, not for anything in particular, more as a challenge to himself. He left a riddle for the Quartermaster once.

“As in Quartermaster.” James confirms.

Obviously before he was awarded the title.

“I’m the MI6 Quartermaster?” He still cannot believe it. It’s probably a big joke. Humour therapy to cure amnesia?

“I would say the tyrant who imposed a reign of terror and Earl Grey on Q-branch, but you go by that name too, yes.”

“Fuck.” Q mutters under his breath, and then it hits him: “Oh, so you’re an agent. That’s why you’re built like a-”

 _God._ He shuts up just in time. But the agent obviously gets the drift, seeing the way he smiles.

“A fresh look.” He says. “How invigorating.” He leans forward, and his voice takes a low, seductive tone. “Although I would very much prefer it if you remembered exactly how it is you look at me.”

Algy swallows, and he doesn’t remember, but he wants to kiss this man, and he knows it will feel appropriate. Bond proves him right, both hands cupping his cheeks. His body remembers more than his mind does, apparently, because instinctively his lips open, his tongue darts out, and if he wasn’t bandaged like a mummy and only just out of surgery, he would pull the man on top of him and beg him to make sweet love to him.

Apparently, the British secret service is exactly the world in which a little geek can score a guy as gorgeous as that.

*

Everything is focused around Algy for a few days. They have to take him back to surgery because they think there’s still some bleeding in his brain causing the amnesia – he’s unable to remember things from one half-day to the next too. He stuck a few post-its where he can see them:

_You got shot._

_You’re Q._

_You love James, and James loves you. (James is the stunning blonde)_

This last one is heartbreaking for everyone.

He’s hurting, and it’s not just physical. One evening when Mycroft visits, he catches him crying like a child, cradled in James’s arms, because his brain is all he has and his brain is failing him. He’s scared.

Everyone is scared when he disappears back into the operating room.

John finds Sherlock in a corridor, slumped on a chair with his head in his hands. He’s not sure he has left the hospital in three days. He’s not sure he has slept or eaten in three days.

John hasn’t either, not really. He cannot process that Sherlock is alive. That he has been alive all this time. It’s uncharitable, but somehow he hopes the detective suffered at least half as much as he did.

Then he doesn’t. Because Sherlock lifts his head up, and he looks wrecked, and in pain, and that is not satisfying at all. John has never seen him look so tired. He has never seen him look tired at all, come to think of it.

Sherlock sees him, and his eyes turn pleading. John knows he cannot avoid him forever. And he doesn’t want to. He comes forward, and sits on the chair next to his ex-flatmate.

“He’s in good hands.” He says softly.

Algy is the common ground. It’s the best ice-breaker he can think of. Sherlock nods slowly.

“He’ll be fine.”

He’s obviously trying to convince himself.

There is a long silence, which they break at the exact same time.

“Sherlock-”

“John-”

Another silence, and John speaks in a very low voice.

“I buried you.”

“I know.” Sherlock whispers.

“No, you don’t.” John counters. “You have no idea.”

“John, they were going to kill you. And Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. And it didn’t matter to those men if their master was dead, they were going to carry the orders out to the world’s end.”

“I know that.” John snaps.

Mixed feelings are exhausting. He’s so mad at a man who saved his life. He’s so happy that he lied to him for months, because he was dead, but that was a lie, and now he’s alive. He did ask for a miracle.

“I know you have a good _reason.”_ He adds. “You always do. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not a good one.” Sherlock says. “Reason. It’s not a good reason. It was selfishness. I didn’t want to stand at your grave, so I let you stand at mine.”

He pauses.

“Also, I knew I would actually survive.” He adds in a terse tone.

It sounds so much like the Sherlock he knows that John almost laughs. But that’s just the fake-suicide part. It doesn’t account for the several months of emptiness after that.

“Which you could have let me know.” He notes. “That would have been nice. I understand the hiding part, as long as they were all out there, but you could have dropped me a line.”

Sherlock has this expression he shows when he’s about to say something very unpleasant. He shakes his head, looking sorry.

“They could have been watching you. They had to believe in your pain. And at this degree, it’s not something you can fake.”

“Oh.” John lets out. He feels like he’s just swallowed a bucket of sour lemons. “So you knew exactly which circles of Hell I was going through. It was just part of your plan.”

“Yes, if you want to put it like that.” Sherlock admits dryly. “It was a necessary evil so you didn’t end up with a bullet through your skull. But I was right, wasn’t I?” He justifies. “Look at what happened. I decide I will no longer stay dead, my brother gets shot.”

Which wouldn’t have happened if he had dealt with his problems himself, instead of letting Algy get dragged into it. The double-oh approach is straight to the point, but it attracts attention. Not to mention he himself was dumb enough to press Algy to go and be seen with John. It probably hasn’t taken Moran very long to connect the dots and make the newfound Holmes his newfound target.

John forgets his pain and his anger for a moment. He realises the past few months may have been just as hard on Sherlock as they were on him. Having to hide, being dead to the world, seeing his slandered name disappear from the papers gradually, chasing trained killers and other mobsters.

And after all that, everything he was trying to prevent ends up happening anyway. To the only person in the world he cares more about than John.

“I’m sorry.” John offers.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Neither do you.”

And with that, John forgives him.

*

Mycroft brings James a decent coffee and a sandwich – it’s around midday, and he knows for a fact the man hasn’t slept or eaten in over eighteen hours. He’s on hold, just like Sherlock– Mycroft is the only one who’s kept coming and going these past few days. His offer is accepted with a short nod, and they spend a moment in silence staring at the door through which Algy will be brought back when he’s out of surgery.

“Algernon has always been secretive.” Mycroft eventually states. “I had no idea he had...a personal life.”

James smiles slightly at the euphemism, but he has to admit it’s accurate. Q would probably never get his mind off work if it wasn’t for him.

“I do admit I was rather concerned, at first.” Mycroft continues in a tone that would make them all forget they are in a hospital and Algy’s life holds in the balance. “I’ve heard a lot about you, 007.”

James is not surprised that the eldest Holmes knows this name – well, number. From what Q told him and from what he gathered himself, Mycroft Holmes’ level of clearance ranks close to M’s. A few missions directed towards MI6 in the past – not any he’s done himself – actually came from Mycroft’s section of the government.

“You are a very good agent but a reckless man; you don’t heed many rules – as evidenced by the fact that you’re involved with your Quartermaster.” There’s a short pause. “But you do seem to care about my brother.” Mycroft finishes.

“Yes sir.” James answers.

He turns gaze towards the other man; there’s a fire burning in those icy blue eyes. Last time someone he loved was in danger he blew up his childhood estate. The time before that he destroyed a good part of Venice. He lost them both anyway. He would burn London to the ground and Moran with it if it could save Q – but he knows now that won’t help. The damage is done, and all he can do is sit and wait. It’s slowly driving him mad. Not that Moran is still running – half of MI6 teams and probably all of Mycroft’s are hot on his heels. But Q. Q is lying on an operation table right now and there is _nothing_ he can do to make sure he gets out alright.

“He will certainly need some time to recover.” Mycroft says, and there is a certainty in his voice that is almost heart-warming. He is convinced the young man will be just fine. He’s a Holmes, it takes more than that to bring them down now doesn’t it?

“Do you think he could move in with you?”

James’s eyes widen a little. Looks like he just got big brother’s stamp of approval. Or maybe it’s a final test: they don’t know the outcome yet, they have no idea what after-effects Algy could suffer from, and what of the amnesia. Will James commit to stay with him whatever his state turns out to be?

“Of course.”

*

There are another endless couple of hours of waiting for Algy to wake up. The neurologist says it went well, but there is no way to be a hundred percent sure there will be no permanent damage. The doctor probably doesn’t understand how serious the outcome is, he has seen many patients cope with small losses. But if Q loses a little, he loses everything. He cannot be expected to do his job if he’s no longer the flawlessly sharp genius he is.

When his eyes open they all stop breathing – James, Mycroft, Sherlock and John. They barely breathe for the whole four or five minutes it takes him to realize where he is and what happened to him.

But he does. His brain needs a few minutes to restart, but it clears up, and he knows exactly where he is, who he is, and what he must have put them through. He holds his hand out for James to take, and everyone lets out the breath they were holding.

“Sorry for the worry.” Q speaks with a frail smile and a frailer voice.

He feels weak, and he doesn’t like it at all. But he’s alive, and his mind is all there.

And James’s chaste, relieved kiss almost makes it worth getting shot.

“You’re back.” He whispers. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m back.” Q whispers in return. “You’re stuck with me I’m afraid.”

“With pleasure.”

Mycroft clears his throat.

“If you two are quite finished flirting, I think the nurse would like to check on Algernon.”

James reluctantly clears a path for said nurse. She does her thing, and ensures – feeling the pressure of four pairs of eyes watching her, three of which are rather menacing – that everything should be fine; but he needs to rest, and complete recovery will be a long process. His body of course needs to pull through the trauma, but his brain was strained to, and he will probably feel fuzzy, tire easily, and not be at full capacity for a few months.

“Months?” Q repeats in a horrified tone. “I need to be on sick leave for _months?”_

He looks so devastated the nurse, probably wisely, gives him a small apologetic nod of confirmation and chooses to retreat. James sits on the side of the bed and tries to comfort his Quartermaster, telling him he’s sure they can give him small cases to work on even during his convalescence. Mycroft, reset to phlegmatic mode by the reassurance that Algy is fine, excuses himself on the grounds that he has work to do. John turns to Sherlock quizzically.

“Is it so bad to be out of work for a few months? Surely he can use the rest.”

Sherlock has a small smirk.

“You know how I am when I get bored?” Sherlock calls to mind.

“Yeah?” John pictures hesitantly.

“He’s worse. Much worse.”

“God. I wish James the best of luck.”

“Well.” Sherlock says. “If things get really bad, he has a licence to kill.”

The joke gets across the room to James and Q’s ears, and they both glare. Sherlock turns to John.

“Too soon?”

“Considering your brother neared death about four times in as many days? Bit too soon yeah.”

Now seems a good time to give the couple some privacy. John leads them out of the room before he asks:

“Licence to kill?”

“He’s one of the double-ohs.”

“That was-”

John turns back with the expression of someone who’s just seen a celebrity without realizing. A double-oh, wow. He used to dream he would become one when he was a kid. Best agents of the MI6. Secretly saving the world every other day.

And apparently top models too.

“Your brother did mention he was MI6.” John says. “Is he an agent too?”

That seems unlikely, given he must weigh a hundred pounds with his clothes on, but after all they must need all type of people in infiltration missions.

Sherlock hesitates, but clearly give or take one secret won’t make much of a difference.

“Not really.” He says. “He’s sort of the geek in chief. He allots equipment, manages communications and bosses people around during missions...”

“You mean he’s the Quartermaster?” John deduces with wide eyes.

“Yes, that.”

“How- Oh, I don’t even need to ask do I? He’s a Holmes.”

Sherlock smiles a fond smile.

“That he is.”

*

When they find themselves alone in the room, James spends a good ten minutes kissing every inch of Q’s face, and another twenty lying by his side on his bed with an arm carefully wrapped around him. He sits up when Q shifts and muffles a groan of pain. His eyelids are heavy. He runs a hand on James’s cheek with a soft smile.

“I think I need to sleep. You should, too. Come back to me when you’re rested, okay?”

James plants a kiss on his lips and gets up, stretches, and sighs heavily.

“Wish me luck.” He says. “I’m calling Eve.”

Q’s eyebrows spring up.

“You haven’t told her? James, I got shot four days ago.”

“Which is why you should wish me luck. She left me half a billion angry messages. She thinks we are on an improvised reckless mission of our own development, or something like that.”

Q looks reproachful, and James tries to defend:

“I didn’t want to call her and tell her I didn’t even know if you would live or die or how much of a dish of scrambled eggs your brain was going to be. She’d have rushed here with half your adoring team of geeks and it wouldn’t have helped anyone.”

Q chuckles, and extends his hand.

“Let me talk to her.”

“You need to rest.” James counters.

“So do you, James, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

“I’ve lived through worse.”

It’s such a blatant lie it hurts, and James corrects himself a split second later.

“Actually, I haven’t. God, Q, I had never-”

Vesper went quickly. M went quickly. But this uncertainty has been agonizing.

“I can take all the yelling Eve and M can come up with.” James jumps forward. “I’m happy to take it, if it means you’re alive.”

He sits on the bed again, leans in, touches his forehead to Q’s.

“Because if you weren’t, Algy, I wouldn’t be here making this phone call. I thought I was a tough guy. But I was so helpless. I might be getting old. It might just be you. The point is, I can’t live without you.”

Q lifts a hand to rest it on the back of James’s neck. They both close their eyes, and they feel each other’s heartbeat where they touch.

“Then don’t.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> It always makes me think of a random Grey's Anatomy episode (don't ask me which) in which a patient, who's a soldier, speaks of how they were expected to leave their private matters out of the way when they were doing their job, which seemed reasonable, until he fell in love with one of his fellow soldiers...
> 
> "I didn't know I'd meet my personal life at work."
> 
> PS: it was only after I chose Q's name that I discovered that the character had been referred to as Algernon in some Bond movies - great minds think alike, I guess ;)


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